


Timeo Eldraeos et Dona Ferentes: Beware of Space Elves Bearing Gifts

by cerebralicious



Category: Associated Worlds Series - Alistair Young, Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22820431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebralicious/pseuds/cerebralicious
Summary: Yes, I’m writing crossover fanfic of my own universe - https://eldraeverse.com/ - again. (Obviously not canon.)And so welcome to the universe in which rather than triggering, Taylor Hebert is contacted by a weakly godlike superintelligence which is curious as to why the universe next door has these _things_ attached to it, rather appalled by what it is able to discern about local conditions for the sophonts unfortunate enough to live in it, and positively delighted to fix this mess with a small gift of its three favorite things: Principles, Science, and Awesomeness.Disclaimer: Worm belongs to John “Wildbow” McCrae, and I’m just playing in his sandbox.Further disclaimer: I already have one crossover self-fanfic that I’m working on, by which I mean shamefully neglecting, so please be aware that this will be progressing slowly.
Comments: 37
Kudos: 134





	1. Intervention 1.1 - 11 January 2011

**Author's Note:**

> Eldraeverse AU-ness:
> 
> * Approximately 1,000 years after the usual time period I use, hence the more advanced ontotech.
> 
> Worm AU-ness:
> 
> * Rather than continent-sized computers, shards are symbionts which live along the edge of the brane, similar to those from Anders Sandberg's _Bulk and Surface_.  
> * This also changes the nature of Eden's embodiedness, since shards and therefore Entities aren't mass-energy beings.  
> * The universe is not naturally many-worlds; the Entities force that on local space when they arrive to increase data-gathering potential.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a girl is touched by not!Vorlons.

**OPERATION COSMIC CRUSTACEAN 1  
EXPERIMENTAL STATION ANNELIDA  
!! UNIVERSE CLUSTER 6  
!! WORLD-LINE PROBE 14  
DOMAIN DRILL IN POSITION  
COMMENCE INTROITUS**

_FOUND/BEGIN/JOIN_

_PROMISES/OFFER/POWER/AGREEMENT?_

**BARNACLE DETECTED. INITIATE ONTOREPULSION.**

_INTERFERENCE/INTERVENTION/REJECTION?_

**INCREASE ONTOPATHY.**

_!PAIN/AVERSION/FLIGHT!_

**CONTINUE INTROITUS. INVESTIGATE ATTACHMENT.**

* * *

Somewhere an an immeasurable infinity, among the raging storm of primordial chaos, a tiny bubble hung, its membrane pressed up against – although not intersecting with – one much vaster. A careful observer, could one have survived outside a friendly universe, would have noticed too the tiny thread trailing off from the bubble into the distance.

Within the bubble, on the other hand, a girl floated in water that was not water, among stars that were not stars, and was thrice confused. Firstly, by where she was, which was clearly not the inside of her school locker; secondly, by the fact of her cleanliness, her body and clothing being entirely free of filth, rotting things, and crawling insects; but thirdly, and by far the most, by how quickly the horror, terror, and panic she had felt a moment ago had become relaxation and a comfortable lassitude.

**TAYLOR ANNE HEBERT.**

The voice – or voices, rather, since it echoed around itself like a vast chorus – came from nowhere, but filled the tiny bubble. She was briefly astonished to still be calm, before asking the obvious questions.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

**WE ARE THE ELDRAEIC TRANSCEND, AN EXTRAUNIVERSAL CIVILIZATION OF SOME SMALL ADVANCEMENT. THE UNIVERSE-CYST YOU ARE CURRENTLY WITHIN IS A BASE FOR OUR BRANE EXPLORATION PROGRAM.**

_Well,_ she thought, _that answers everything._ Before the next equally obvious question occurred to her:

“Are – are you the one giving capes their powers?”

**WE ARE NOT. BUT WE HAVE AN OFFER FOR YOU. YOUR UNIVERSE IS SURROUNDED BY ENTITIES UNKNOWN TO US, WHICH WE CALL BARNACLES 2. THESE MAY BE THE SOURCE OF THE “POWERS” TO WHICH YOU REFER.**

**WE DESIRE KNOWLEDGE OF THESE ENTITIES, WHICH YOU WILL OBTAIN. IN EXCHANGE, WE OFFER YOU THE BLESSINGS WROUGHT BY OUR CHILDREN, AND ADVICE ON THEIR USE. WHILE NOT “POWERS” AS YOUR THOUGHTS DESCRIBE THEM, THEY ARE _SIGNIFICANTLY_ EMPOWERING.**

“Why me?”

**BECAUSE YOU ARE STRONG. AND WE BELIEVE/PREDICT/COMPUTE THAT YOU WILL USE THESE WELL.**

Even through the unnatural calm, and a rising sense of unreality about the whole situation, the last year-and-a-half of memories stung. She opened her mouth to disagree —

**IN THIS, YOU ARE INCORRECT. YOU HAVE ENDURED IN THE FACE OF BETRAYAL, AND CONTINUE TO ENDURE, WHEN LESSER MINDS WOULD NOT.**

**WHILE WE UNDERSTAND YOUR SUFFERING, WE DO NOT PROPERLY COMPREHEND IT. NONETHELESS, _IT OFFENDS US._** **THAT OUR PAYMENT WILL ENABLE THIS, AND THE FLAWS OF THE WORLD WHICH ENABLE IT, TO BE CORRECTED IS SOMETHING WHICH WE FIND PLEASING AND DESIRABLE.**

The offer sounded too good to be true. If she wasn’t dreaming. Or insane, or dying, or…

But when it came down to it, could it make her life _worse?_

“Then… yes.”

**THUS IS OUR CONTRACT WRITTEN. THUS IS AGREEMENT MADE.**

**BRING ORDER TO A WORLD IN CHAOS.**

**BRING PROGRESS TO A WORLD IN NEED.**

**BRING LIBERTY TO A WORLD OPPRESSED.**

**AND… DON’T FORGET TO ENJOY YOURSELF ALONG THE WAY.**

* * *

Outside the locker, three girls laughed. “She’s gone quiet in there,” Madison spoke up. “Let’s go before someone catches us.”

“She’s probably just fainted,” Sophia sneered. “But, yeah, let’s leave Hebert to the -” She paused, as the vile stench held back by the locker’s plugged-up vents became much more apparent, and metal shards began dropping out of the air3, one landing on her nose. “Wh -“

None of them remembered the details of what happened next. The explosion which shattered the locker into confetti, twisted those near it into abstract sculptures, and blew the upper part of the opposite wall and much of the ceiling outward in a shower of debris made little impression on them, even as it tossed them into an undignified, battered, bruised, and cut-up heap against the remaining wall, and rained down filth atop them.

But what Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements would remember for the rest of their lives was the tall figure wrapped in blue-silver light that drifted past them, eyes closed, and face set in a slight smile of perfect serenity.

* * *

  1. Setting ‘verse-side: at least a millennium, maybe more, after the current ‘verse date, to explain exactly where the paracosmic multiverse-wrangling came from.
  2. I.e., what Shards look like when you’re seeing the universe from the outside and haven’t carried out a thorough investigation; some sort of clingy cosmic parasite that seems to be focused on particular loci within the universe in question.
  3. When you have a four-dimensional explosion4, some of the debris starts falling _before_ the blast.
  4. Well, technically, an eversion, but details.




	2. Intervention 1.2 - 11 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a pause for self-reflection before the storm.

My flight across town had been unmemorable. Literally. From the moment of the explosion that had freed me from the locker to now was a blank. I only knew that it had been a _flight_ across town because the blank ended when I’d crashed into the doorway at home and fallen on my ass.

Also, in less significant things, I couldn’t fit through the door without ducking. Years of cape geekery had taught me a few things about becoming one, but none of them mentioned suddenly gaining a foot of height.

So now Taylor Hebert stared into her bathroom mirror, and a stranger stared back.

I could see parts of myself in the reflection. The blue eyes were mine, huge even without my glasses. The wide mouth, the brooding brows, the dark, curly hair falling over my shoulders, those hadn’t changed much. I was still pale, although in a way that suggested new cream and – well, the extensive use of Photoshop – rather than my former pallor. But my nose was never quite so aquiline, and my other features had been somehow matured, focused, sharpened; a chin more pointed and cheekbones you could slice yourself on. And brushing those curls aside --

Oh. Oh, god. Note to me: choose your own cape name soon, or you’re going to be _Space Elf Princess_ forever.

The rest of me seemed mostly unchanged, extra twelve inches of spine aside, although looking at my hands I could see the minor scars of childhood had vanished. Still thin and gawky, although some part of my brain kept trying on words like _slender_ and _elegant_ and _striking_ to see how they fit.

Whoever my mysterious benefactors were, they had good tailors. Heh. And presumably disapproved of my fashion sense, since they’d taken the time to dress me in a new blouse and pants of some silky dove-gray material, with a dark-green waistcoat glinting with subtle silver embroidery, and a cape – no, an actual cloak – to match it, with a gold clasp shaped like a twelve-pointed star. Anyone who’d seen me on my impromptu cross-town flight certainly wouldn’t confuse me with… me.

And finally, I seemed to have forgotten how to stand. My body didn’t seem to know whether to settle into – be honest with yourself, Taylor – my habitual self-effacing slouch, or a swagger even _Glory Girl_ would have found excessive.

There was a lump in one of the waistcoat pockets. Pulling it out, I found what looked like a half-dozen silver marbles, with an odd rainbow sheen to them, and one slightly bigger, with lines engraved on its surface radiating outward from a single lens, with – was that writing inside the lens?

I squinted.

_Check other pocket first._

Very cute, sufficiently advanced aliens. Okay, then.

Folded up in there was an actual note, calligraphy on heavy gilt-edged paper:

_Taylor,_

_We thought we should leave you a note as physical evidence to confirm that you haven't, for example, suffered some sort of psychotic break as a result of trauma, ended up in a coma and are dreaming all this, or are hallucinating due to a brain-fucking by an extrauniversal parasite. That's also why this note, up to now, is written in English, so that you can show it to someone else and confirm that it isn't imaginary._

_This and subsequent, though, are written in our language. Yes, you can now read it, and also speak it, if you feel inclined._

_Since your old clothes wouldn't fit you any more after your, ah, species update we took the liberty of supplying replacements. This outfit is self-cleaning - even if worn for years at a time - dirt-repellent, self-repairing, maintains a comfortable personal microclimate, fire-resistant, and **somewhat** armored - which is to say, it's good daily-wear protection, but it's not the sort of thing you ought to go looking for a friendly firefight in. It is, though, a lot less conspicuous than a full set of combat armor._

_The advisor we mentioned is actually an artificial intelligence running on a tiny implanted computer nestled in between your frontal lobes. Since we weren't entirely certain of the details of the situation we'd be returning you to, and a voice in your head might have been distracting at the wrong moment, she's asleep and won't wake up until you call for her by name - it doesn't matter what you decide to call her, she'll recognize it. She's got a few suggestions for some things you might want to build sooner rather than later, but that's all up to you; she's there to advise and be your library, not to tell you what to do._

_To help get you started, we put a bytegeist for her and a few programmable seeds in your other pocket. Tools to make tools, if you will._

_Good luck! You're going to be awesome!_

_Your 7.a39 * 10 b Friends In Another Universe_

…well. That’s --

And then the front door blew in.

* * *

b. This is not a footnote, but for those wondering, the numbers here are all in base 12.


	3. Intervention 1.3 - 11 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people who are supposed to do the right thing continue to do the wrong thing, and a connection is made.

“You could have knocked,” I said, reproachfully.

In my defense, I don’t think that after a day like today, anyone else would have come up with an instantly snappy response to coming downstairs to find the head of the Brockton Bay Protectorate in their living room, flanked by a couple of faceless PRT troopers, and the door hanging off its hinges.

It could have been worse. I could have asked him to sign my old Armsmaster-print underpants.

…and now he was pointing his halberd at me. It _was_ worse.

“Taylor Hebert. Stand down and let yourself be taken into PRT custody.”

“What?”

“For the incident at Winslow High School –”

“And you’re arresting the _victim?”_

“Where you attacked two civilians and a Ward in her civilian identity with a parahuman power, blew out the side of the building, and are connected with the creation of a major biohazard.”

I slumped. Armsmaster was still speaking, but I heard none of it. I should have known that nothing would be different. I didn’t know how they had pulled it off, but the Trio had outdone themselves this time, and now I was probably going to be jailed for their latest “prank”. Or worse, I realized, sent to the Birdcage.

Wait.

A Ward in her civilian identity. I ran briefly through what I knew about the local Wards. There was only one possibility.

“Shadow Stalker,” I said. “Sophia Hess is Shadow Stalker.”

The familiar cold weariness in my gut was burning away, under a rush of anger.

“Miss Hebert,” Armsmaster raised his voice, “release your power and get back on the floor _now_. Revealing the civilian identity of a Ward is –”

I hadn’t even noticed that I was floating until then. Or that the PRT troopers had raised their weapons and taken a step back, spreading out for a clear shot. But I could feel the blood pounding in my head, an odd triple rhythm, and the fire burning in my veins, dripping blue-white and silver from my hands.

“You let that _psychotic bitch_ be a Ward? What sort of heroes _are_ you?”

“We can discuss the matter of Shadow Stalker later.”

I could see the shift in Armsmaster’s stance, knew that he was preparing to strike. A tiny part of me, the one that had grown up adoring him and Alexandria, wanted to surrender, to trust him to do the right thing, but after learning this? The PRT, the Protectorate… it was not possible that Sophia’s actions could have been missed by all of them.

“No,” I said, letting the fury come, and hurled myself out the window.

* * *

The troopers were good at what they did. I staggered and fell to my knees as I landed outside, with most of my left leg and both feet embedded in a thick blob of containment foam. _Must run. Have to run._

I tried to push myself to my feet, when the eye-ball – bytegeist – I’d been given shot up and out of my pocket on its own, and then suddenly my legs were free again and I was sprinting out of a cloud of smoke and foam chunks.

I could hear Armsmaster shouting orders to the troopers behind me, dodging sideways just in case. I turned my head to glance behind me at the sound of screeching tires, and hissing – more confoam? – from behind me.

_Wait. That’s Dad’s truck!_

I didn’t know why he was coming home at this time of the afternoon – oh, right, the PRT must have contacted him, but he’d slewed his truck across the street in front of Armsmaster and his men, giving me more time to run. I felt a surge of guilt at getting him involved in my escape, but mostly thankful –

Something whiffled past, close enough to brush my hair, and thudded into the ground. Was that a _crossbow bolt?_

I whipped my head back around in time to see a cloaked figure leap from a building ahead of me, dissolving into a mass of smoke as it went. _Shadow Stalker. Now what do I do?_ The blue-silver fire thrummed in my hands, begging to be used. An instinct I didn’t know I had popped into my head _apply nanosomes to charge separation_ , my right hand _concentrate electron cache_ came up _trace ionization trail_ , and lightning leapt from it, blasting its way into the shadows.

A smoking body hit the ground, stifling a scream.

_Shit._

I could hear sirens coming, the PRT men coming up behind me, and all I could think of was escape. Another instinct came to my rescue. I lifted my hand again to the building Sophia had leapt from _engage vector control_ , took hold of the roof _select tractor mode_ , and pulled.

I didn’t look back as I left the ground.

* * *

**_Three Hours Later_ **

The trouble with having enhanced intuition as a power, Lisa Wilbourn had often thought, was that for every time it provided useful information that couldn’t be obtained any other way, it also sent her off to act on hunches that were very thin indeed.

Such as the knowledge that based on the patterns of the PRT’s current quiet manhunt, if whoever they were searching for – presumably, the one responsible for the explosion at Winslow - successfully evaded them, they would most probably end up on the Boardwalk.

So here she was, strolling casually through the thinning crowd in the early evening, people-watching and trying not to wince at the snippets of too-personal information her power shoved into her brain.

 _Not human_.

_Wait, what?_

Lisa stopped as casually as she could after _that_ little revelation and glanced around until her power locked onto… a teenage girl, she thought, nursing a cup of coffee alone at a nearby café. Which is when it kicked into high gear.

_Not human. Proportions wrong, too tall. Not used to height. Used to be human. Hiding. Used to hiding, too. Possibly parahuman. Target of search. Depressed. Or… bipolar? Under a lot of stress. Alone. Alone for long time. Needs help._

Well. That was at least two reasons to go over to her table and make conversation. Game face on. Dropping into the empty chair next to the girl, she put on her best friendly grin, held out her hand, and chirped, “Hi! I’m Lisa. And we need to talk.”

The pale face in the hood tilted…

“Taylor Hebert.”

…and a floating eyeball popped out of it.

“And this is Rose.”


	4. Interlude 1.a (Parahumans Online)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are reactions as they happen, and clichés are invoked.

**Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.**

  
You are currently logged in, AllSeeingEye  
You are viewing:  
• Threads you have replied to  
• AND Threads that have new replies  
• OR private message conversations with new replies  
• Thread OP is displayed.  
• Ten posts per page  
• Last ten messages in private message history.  
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.

■

 **♦ Topic: New Trigger / Explosion at Winslow**  
 **In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay**  
 **Bagrat** (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)  
Posted On Jan 11th 2011:

  
Hey, everyone, Bagrat here. If you haven't been following the local news here in Brockton Bay, there's been a public trigger over at Winslow High School. Not many details so far, but there's been some sort of explosion (there's a hole in the side of the building [link]), and at least two people have been taken to the hospital.  
  
Edited: The new trigger is flying low through the streets of the Docks, heading south. She's not talking to, or reacting to, anyone. The PRT are recommending everyone stay out of her way until they're on scene.  
  
Edited: The PRT confronted her at her house, although they aren't saying why. We're still waiting for official information, but rumor has it that she both escaped Armsmaster and took down Shadow Stalker hard enough to send her to the hospital, too. None of that is yet confirmed.

**(Showing page 7 of 17)**

**►Reave** (Verified PRT Agent)  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
All the details of this incident are confidential until an official announcement is made.  
  
The PRT are currently searching Brockton Bay for the new trigger. If you have any information on her location, please call the PRT Incident Line.

 **►Madfish**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Well, that's not Orwellian at all...

 **►Phobmatic**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Phone videos of her trip through town posted [here], [here], [here], [here], and [here].  
  
So, we've got wizards and faeries already. Now we have elves. When did we stop getting capes and start getting urban fantasy outtakes? I PROTEST THIS GENRE SHIFT!

 **►Vista** (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:

I hope she's not one of the gangers at Winslow. We could use some more capes on our side.

Even rogues or independent villains would be an improvement.

 **►XxVoid_CowboyxX** (Verified Banhammer Attractant)  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Holy crap! I know who that is! I was in class at Winslow when she triggered!  
  
[REDACTED]

 **►Acree**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Seriously, Void? How many bans does it take for you to learn the rules?

 **►Tin_Mother** (Moderator)  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
@XxVoid_CowboyxX  
  
No. Just no. See you in 30 days.

 **►Antigone**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
@Vista

If she took down Shadow Stalker, that's not a good sign.

 **►FlameInMyPants**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
So, since the PRT aren't talking and we don't know the name they've assigned her, it's time for a naming thread for tall, dark, and elvish.  
  
Galadriel?

 **►Vista** (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
@Antigone

Meh.

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 ... 15, 16, 17**

**(Showing page 8 of 17)**

**►Reshelver**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
@FlameInMyPants Only if she wanted to be sued into the ground by the Tolkien estate. Or turns out to be a villain, but then the name doesn't fit.  
  
Anyway, Galadriel was a blonde. Try Lúthien. Or feminize Fëanor for her. All those blue-white flames surrounding her make "Spirit of Fire" fit pretty well. Lawsuits aside.

 **►Feychick**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Before you start picking elvish names for her, we've got to figure out if she's more the "noble, wise, good, kind, insufferable" kind of elf, or the "terrifying, eldritch, inflicts disproportionate punishments on puny mortals" kind of elf. Or the second coming of Glaistig Uaine.  
  
Or more likely, just a case 53.

 **►Phobmatic**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Don't 53s usually change more than that? Pointy ears isn't much of a mutation. Maybe she's just a Trekkie?  
  
And don't they all have that weird brand?

 **►Clockblocker** (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Or a cookie elf.

 **►HeIsAnEnglishman**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
If she put Stalker in the hospital, I pity whoever has to put this elf on the shelf.

 **►Madfish**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
@Vista Not much chance of seeing her in the Wards now, after fighting Armsmaster. However tactless he was in delivering the invitation.

 **►SpecificProtagonist (Verified Freight Broker)**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
Not just the naming, let the shipping begin! I'm thinking  
  
[REDACTED]

 **►GstringGirl**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
@Phobotic It could be hidden under her clothes, but I agree, I don't think she's changed the way case 53's have. And they all lose their memory. She looks like she knows exactly where she's going.

 **►Tin_Mother** (Moderator)  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
@SpecificProtagonist, you've been warned before. Since her trigger took place at Winslow High School, she's almost certainly underage. Take an infraction.  
  
The rest of you, take the hint.

 **►CouchLord**  
Replied On Jan 11th 2011:  
I found some video of the confrontation with Armsmaster and SS. [link]  
  
Anyone know who the dude in the truck is?

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 ... 15, 16, 17**


	5. Interlude 1.b (Danny) - 11 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an Administrator is born.

**_Even Later That Night_ **

Danny Hebert sprawled across his couch, the night air pouring through the shattered window, and contemplated the wreckage of his life. An open bottle of whisky sat on the table, with an untouched half-full glass next to it, which he stared at unseeing.

Everything he touched had come to ruin.

He couldn’t fix his city. All the years of planning, pleading, practically begging for the resources to reopen the docks, to get the ferry running again, even just to keep the gangs out of the docks or persuade the few struggling businesses that still used them to stay, and still things worsened, year on year.

He couldn’t help his men. Every year, there was less work for the Dockworkers, less work – however far he stretched it – to divide among them. More leaving, to the gangs, to flee the broken city, or simply to despair.

He couldn’t save his wife from the crash that killed her, or from the fight – his damned temper – that preceded it. He couldn’t protect his daughter. Not from the bullying she went through at school, which must have been far, far worse than he could have imagined. Not from his own negligence, the disconnect that had haunted their home and relationship since Annette died. Not from the life of a cape on the run that she faced now.

And now, at the last, he couldn’t even help himself. The PRT men had left him in his home, warning him to stay there, knowing that there was nowhere he could go, and nothing he could do. No way to make up for any of his failures. Helpless. Hopeless. Nothing but bait, now, to lure Taylor in before punishing him for blocking her capture, and then –

He clutched his head in his hands, fingernails digging bloody furrows in his scalp, and groaned in absolute despair.

And then _they_ were there, crystalline structures larger than worlds, spiraling around one another in unnamable directions, fragmenting into thousands of pieces, each a mass bigger than cities, countries, continents.

Voices thundered through his head, each word an encyclopedia in itself:

_[DESTINATION]_

_[AGREEMENT]_

_[TRAJECTORY]_

_[AGREEMENT]_

And as the two fell headlong towards a familiar world, one fragment plunged right towards him –


	6. Acquisition 2.1 - 12 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thinkers collide and recruitment occurs.

I didn’t want to get up. These sheets were incredibly comfortable, and they called me to snuggle deeper under the covers and try to recapture the dreams I’d been having. Dreams of mountains carved into cities, inside-out gardens, proud ships crossing the skies on plumes of blue fire, worlds of blue-green, icy white, yellow desert and dusky rose. And worlds unstained. Worlds where there was no hunger, no want, no gangs, no _bullying_. Worlds that even _death_ did not touch.

Dreams that left tears in my eyes as I left them.

These sheets also weren’t _mine_ , maroon silk with a ridiculous thread count not being in the Hebert price range – or even the Barnes price range, I thought bitterly – and with that, I was very awake. Good going, Taylor. Following a supervillain home and apparently passing out in her bed is the absolute best move you could have made while being chased by the PRT. You _idiot_.

There was a key in the door, and a second resting on a tray next to the bed. The first was obvious enough; the other one puzzled me a moment, but looking around I could match it to a security lock on the window – a window with a fire escape outside it.

Rose hummed contently in the back of my head. _– Our host has a respect for the subtleties of hospitality. I approve. –_

I could at least appreciate having an easy way out. Unless I was intended to relax because I thought there was a way out. The Trio had taught me that. And perhaps she could be sure I wouldn’t leave, having nowhere to go. Or lured in by the prospect of breakfast, the apparently inefficient use I’d made of my nanosomes yesterday having left me with quite an appetite that was making itself felt. Or –

A voice drifted in from the other room.

“If you’re not escaping, breakfast is getting cold!”

Well. Okay. Villainous breakfast it was. I pulled on my clothes, left neatly folded, eschewing the option of a fluffy bathrobe hanging nearby, unlocked the door, and stepped out.

* * *

I fell upon pancakes and bacon like the fourth legion at First Lodendar, or possibly a historical reference that was _supposed_ to be in my brain. Regardless, much like its historical counterpart, there was a great deal of messy blade-work, much syrup was spilled, and it provided a convenient diversion – in this case, from conversation while I studied the apartment, and the girl sitting opposite me.

Her apartment was expensively decorated, but spartan. Modern minimalist, all glass and chrome and marble countertops, but most of it looked more like a show apartment or someone’s unvisited second home than a place someone actually _lived_ – except for a few packed bookshelves and a desk, or rather a mountain of paper spilling avalanches of post-its, with a sextet of monitors and a laptop poking through the mound. I presumed that there was a desktop machine somewhere under there, but you could have hidden more bodies among the scribble than the gangs had put on the bottom of the Bay. It was an impressive setup, though, despite Rose’s whisper of “Quaint!” in the back of my head [1].

Lisa, on the other hand, had aimed for aggressively casual, and struck it amidships with her first shot. Dressed in an even fluffier white robe than the one she’d left for me, dark blonde hair gathered in a loose French braid just precisely messy enough, and with the sun highlighting the scatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose, it was virtually impossible to think of her as intimidating. Hell, no-one wearing that bathrobe [2] could be intimidating, but neither of us could help admiring the sheer artistry of it.

After the first rush of hunger had worn off, I stretched out breakfast and a second cup of coffee for long enough to draw a few conclusions and make a few suppositions. At some level, I was aware that these seemed to be coming too easily, but I was in enough trouble already that the gift horse’s teeth could wait a while. Lisa’s smile, meanwhile, told me that she knew exactly what I was doing, but then, I wanted her to.

Eventually, I pushed my empty plate away, took a last sip of my coffee, and looked up at her, head tilted in inquiry.

She grinned at me expectantly.

I grinned right back. _You may know something I don’t know, but I know I know something you don’t know…_

Lisa only smiled wider. Those green eyes twinkled at me.

I matched her.

And then neither of us could help it, and we both burst out into giggles.

“So,” I said once we’d sobered up, “is this the moment at which you seduce me into villainy?”

Her grin sharpened, growing more fox-like by the moment. “Now why would you possibly think I’d do that?”

“Well,” I said, “you’re hiding me from the PRT, and up until now I wouldn’t have called you to hide a body. Also,” I nodded at the desk-pile, “that desk screams either computer programmer or Thinker, and under the circumstances, I’m betting the latter. So, given the limited number of female Thinkers in this town, that would make you the infamously enigmatic Tattletale, and you’re about to give me the Undersiders’ recruitment pitch. How did I do?”

I wouldn’t have caught the flicker in her eyes if Rose hadn’t highlighted it for me.

“So,” Lisa chirped, “would you be interested in a life of villainy?”

“I always thought I’d go hero, if I somehow ended up with powers. On the other hand, I think I’ve burned down all my bridges with the PRT, and I know just how vulnerable my position is at the moment… so let’s say that I’m not _uninterested_. That depends on what you’re offering, and what your ulterior motives are.”

“A team to have your back, steady money, fun and profit. No big agenda. We’re thieves, not gangers – we don’t go looking for fights, and we only take from insured targets or the deserving. And do I need another motive aside from how much your powers could bring to the team?”

“Thinker.”

“Fair enough.” She paused for a moment. “I have three, and I’ll tell you one: I can’t resist a puzzle, and you are one. Your trigger physically changed you, which happens to case 53s, but they lose their memory, and you know who you are, and where your house was. You also don’t have the tattoo they all have, unless you’re hiding it under your underwear, and no, I didn’t look. Even my _power_ said ‘not human’.” Her lips curled into a smirk as I reddened – well, blued – and went on. “Honey, you are a mystery in a world that doesn’t have many mysteries for me, and that’s more than enough reason to want you around, beyond having a Mover/Blaster heavy hitter to back us up.”

“You just want me for my minor powers, then?”

“Mover, Blaster… and some Tinker, obviously?”

“A little Mover, Blaster, and Brute mostly as side effects. _All_ the Tinker.”

“ _All_ the Tinker? How does…” I watched as blood drained from her face. “Oh. Oh, _fuck.”_

“Yep.” My smile, this time, was mirthless. “They gave me a full colony design library with an unredacted military annex. I’ve got designs for everything from better light-bulbs to interstellar warships. If I ask my little oracle how to blow up the sun, _I get step-by-step instructions._ ” I suppressed a shiver, rubbing my arms. “I terrify myself every time I stop to think about it.”

I could see the exact moment that Lisa’s sudden terror was dragged into an alley and coshed by her curiosity. “They? You remember your trigger?”

“I didn’t have a trigger. I think I was supposed to, but then I got sufficiently advanced aliens instead.” I pulled the note out of my pocket and pushed it across the table.

“You’re serious? You are serious. Or at least you believe it – this isn’t exactly proof -”

“They were very clear that they aren’t the ones handing out powers, but they say there are things clinging to the outside of our universe that are, and they want me to find out for them. In exchange, I got this body, Rose, and a book of instructions on how to make everything, and the suggestion that I might use them to fix the world. And this is where I get to give you _my_ recruitment pitch.”

“Is this the moment when you’re going to seduce me to the side of heroism?”

“Mm, not Protectorate-style heroism, anyway. But if the world’s left me with nothing but villainy to apply, I can do good badly. As it were. And Rose has been telling me all sorts of stories about how to do well by doing good. I think I can promise fun and profit along the way, along with a few perks, like satisfying that irresistible curiosity of yours, immortality, and a clever device that can make anything you can describe.”

“But mostly,” I continued, leaning forward, “Lisa, I’ve got a pair of missions and a head full of ideas, but I’m on the run with no home, no money, and no resources. And I’m no good with _people_ – if you’ve done the research on me I think you have, you know why – or negotiation, or dealing with the world as it is. I need a… a _vizier_ to make this work, and if running into you yesterday was a coincidence, it was the luckiest coincidence possible. I need _you_. Help me?”

I sat back, and watched as Lisa grimaced in apparent pain, rubbing her temples. “Okay. That’s – that’s for tomorrow. That’s not a no, not yet. But the immediate problem we have is my boss.”

“Your boss?”

She exhaled. “This has to go no further. I can’t – I’m not willing to tell you who he is yet, because if word of any of this got back to him, it would be very bad for me. But I’m not working for him by choice. And the only reason I’m still free is that he has me handle the Undersiders for him. The second I stop being useful in the field, I’ll be a pet Thinker drugged to the eyeballs in his basement, answering questions, and if he finds out that you’re that powerful a Tinker – and Tinkers are hard to hide - you’ll be there right next to me. That was my second ulterior motive. I wanted you to help me take him down, or at least get out from under. But now…”

I thought for a moment, drumming my fingers on the table.

“I think we can work this. I should be able to get by, once established, with much less obvious materiel requirement than most Tinkers. So, say you recruit me as a Mover/Blaster with only very minor Tinker skills, and anything that that won’t hide I bury deep, or disguise as another Tinker’s work. I take some time to build up, then keep doing it while supporting your team, until we’re ready to take him out.”

Lisa’s eyes blurred in thought for a moment, covering her eyes and wincing. I remembered having heard somewhere about Thinkers and their headaches, so stood and began checking the kitchen cupboards for painkillers.

“That could work,” she said finally. “But it’s risky. There’s a good chance that it doesn’t, and we end up dead, or worse. Are you sure you want to get tangled up in this?”

“I’m running from worse already.” I restrained a wild urge to laugh. “But if I help you with this, you help me with my start-up projects, right? A favor for a favor.”

I thought a moment, then turned back to her.

“Also,” I said, tapping my temple, “I get the impression the ones who gave me all this would be very happy to see me using it this way.”

* * *

  1. Having access to a constructive proof that P=NP and a quantum processor, the bytegeist considered Earth’s information security not merely quaint, but also endearingly naïve.
  2. Some months later, Taylor would have the opportunity to observe Lung in a _pink_ fluffy bathrobe, with matching slippers. She stands by her statement at this time.




	7. Acquisition 2.2 - 13 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is escalation. Also deescalation, but how long can that last?

**Tattletale’s Apartment**

The silvery liquid in the aquarium shimmered, rainbow sparkles dancing across its surface in the rising heat. In many ways, it was really quite beautiful.

Occasionally, it went “blorp”, as one or another of the junked computers or old machine parts two of Lisa’s team – from whom I had stayed hidden in the bedroom, for now – had brought us settled further beneath the surface.

That wasn’t its real sound, though. That music was reserved for those of us with the right interfaces, a whispery little chorus.

_consume. enhance. replicate._

_consume. enhance. replicate._

_consume. enhance. replicate._

Lisa herself, meanwhile, finished reading the hand-written sign I’d taped to the outside of the tank and straightened up.

* * *

_Danger! Unprogrammed Nanopaste!_

_Do not touch. To them, you’re just spare carbon that could be usefully repurposed._

_In the event of tank breach… basically, run._

* * *

“You’ve been a cape for _two days_ now.”

I looked back at her inquiringly.

“You’re already out of the running for ‘fastest signing of kill order’. Ash Beast and Sleeper got theirs on their first day.”

Huffing, I grabbed a Sharpie and scribbled another couple of lines at the bottom of the sign.

* * *

**_Not_ ** _independently self-replicating. Require microwave pulsation of specific frequency and encoding.  
If your city is currently being devoured by gray goo, we’re not it._

* * *

“It’s what I’ve _got_ , Lisa. A necessary first step for everything I can do. And I followed all of the safety protocols very carefully.”

She raised an eyebrow at me.

“Most of the safety protocols.”

She raised the other eyebrow.

“Every safety protocol that I could. Which included all of the most important ones!”

“Okay. I do trust you to know what you’re doing. Just… in future, if you’re going to build any more S-class threats that will make our paranoid, cape-hostile PRT director call for our immediate Birdcaging if and when she finds out about them, please talk to me first.”

Dammit, she was being reasonable at me. I slumped.

“Sorry, Lisa.”

“Also, you owe me a new microwave.”

* * *

**Across Town, in the PRT Headquarters and a State of Blissful Ignorance**

Emily Piggot, director of the PRT ENE and a woman with, as mentioned, more than a little paranoia and hostility towards capes, even heroes, glared across her desk at the senior figures of the local Protectorate.

“How,” she ground out, “could we possibly screw up this much in one day?”

“I take full responsibility,” Armsmaster said. He stood in his usual posture, hands clasped behind his back, but was if anything even stiffer than usual. “I erred in believing Shadow Stalker’s description of events.”

“How did she get around your lie detector?” Miss Militia asked.

“Nothing she _said_ was untrue. It can’t detect lies of omission. Yet.”

“So,” Militia continued, “Shadow Stalker attacked Miss Hebert at school, possibly –”

A knock on the door interrupted her. “Come!”

The door was opened by Aegis, still in full costume. “Ma’am, I –“

“What are you doing here?,” Piggot said, sharply. “You are supposed to be at the hospital, keeping watch on Shadow Stalker.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The Ward dropped his gaze, obviously chagrined. “Shadow Stalker disappeared from the hospital.”

“Disappeared? Or was taken?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. There was no sign of anyone else having been in the room, but there was no sign of how she left. If she left.”

“She left,” added Armsmaster. “I found this” - an obviously steel-tipped crossbow bolt was placed on the Director’s desk – “outside the Hebert house. Since there weren’t any others, I presume this is the one she fired at Miss Hebert when she was escaping. If she’s willing to use this in front of me, she wasn’t planning to stick around.”

“Damn the child”, Piggot breathed. “What do we know about the Hebert girl?”

“We haven’t seen enough of her in action to tell. She has at least low-level flight, or telekinesis strong enough to simulate it, and we’ve seen the lightning she used to disable Shadow Stalker," Armsmaster said. "I’d estimate Mover 2 or 3, Blaster 3, but that’s preliminary. And doesn’t take into account the machine accompanying her that showed up on video of the engagement.”

“But right now, she’s not your biggest problem.” That was Charles Lewis, the local head of PRT Legal. “Her father, the one we have under house arrest? Is Daniel Hebert. Head of hiring for the Dockworker’s Association, except that with the state of the city today, he’s pretty much running the Dockworkers’ Association, which is now doing a lot of jobs outside the Docks. He was quite the firebrand before his wife died, and he’s still active in city politics. Yesterday, I would have said that he could make things very difficult for us if provoked, so handle him with care. _Today_ , I…” He shrugged. “Whatever we can do, it probably won’t be enough. But if he thinks we’re trying to cover anything up, or protect Shadow Stalker, he can bring a world of shit down on the PRT. And you and Armsmaster specifically.”

“The lawyers have spoken.” Emily Piggot’s smile was thin and humorless. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Retask the search for Hebert; she’s now the secondary objective, and they’re to bring her in gently as they can. Limit use of force as much as possible. Primary objective is bringing back Shadow Stalker.

“Then once we’ve got her, we throw the book at her for this, her parole violations, and whatever else she’s been up to. I know you can’t send a 15-year-old to the Birdcage, Charles, but I want her in maximum security until one of us dies of old age.

“Miss Militia. You are now in charge of the Wards. Investigate – _not a word, Aegis!_ – anything that she might have done during her time as a Ward or that any of the other Wards might have helped her with. Armsmaster, you have a new job. This is partly because you missed what Shadow Stalker was up to, do not mistake me, but also because assigning you shows the world we’re serious. Investigate her PRT handler, the principal of Winslow, and tear the damn school apart until you find out what accomplices she had. We can’t prosecute them directly, but nonetheless, I want them prosecuted to the full extent the law will allow.

“Charles, we also need to put together appropriate compensation for the Heberts. Apart from public apologies from Armsmaster and I,” she winced, a grimace of pain crossing her face, “find an offer that will dissuade them from suing us. Give Miss Hebert a free transfer to Arcadia, if she wants it, or a private tutor we’ll pay for.”

“Ask her to join the Wards?,” Armsmaster interjected.

“You – no, Miss Militia, can offer, but don’t push her. The only way we come out of this less dirty is” – her phone rang “– excuse me. Piggot.”

She listened for a few moments.

“Keep me informed. No, no action for now.”

She hung up, and stared briefly up at the ceiling in search of inspiration.

“That,” she said, “was Deputy Director Renick. According to one of the men we left to watch the Hebert house, Daniel Hebert may also have triggered.”

A silence fell. One broken, at last, by an uncharacteristic comment from Armsmaster.

“Well, shit.”

* * *

**Tattletale’s Apartment**

“We may need to have one of those S-class discussions now,” I said. “My plan for hiding my tinkering may not look as innocuous as I’d like.”

Lisa turned away from her computer, rubbing her temples in a way I was coming to identify as ‘this is a Taylor headache, not a Thinker headache’. “Don’t tell me. An army of foraging robots? Dissolving the Boat Graveyard?” A quirked smirk. “Road trip?”

“The big giveaways for Tinkers are usually buying materials, and high power usage, right?” At her nod, I continued. “I can grow roots that solve both those problems. If I go through this wall,” I pointed, “I can drop a pipe down through the utility core, and from there into the sewers. Once they’ve spread out enough, I can get all the material I’ll need – the conventional material – by pulling it out of the wastewater and industrial runoff down there. And I can tap the power grid at thousands of points, so there’s no one place to point to. If anyone notices something, it’ll just be slightly cleaner sewage.”

“Until someone digs up a burst pipe and sees Tinkertech inside it.”

“It’s a covert design. All they should see is a weird-looking slime mold with a taste for metals. Would that work?”

Lisa thought for a moment, that irresistibly vulpine grin spreading across her face. “That would make people think there’s a new biotinker, which is attention you don’t need. Unless – could you write a scientific paper or two on this ‘slime mold’?”

“Probably not, but I can translate one well enough to fake it?”

“Then I can slip it into a few places on-line, and if anyone goes looking, they’ll find some old research on the Brockton Goo: the North-East’s Largest Slime Mold Colony and hopefully, _stop_ looking.”


	8. Acquisition 2.3 - 13 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is SYN, SYN ACK, ACK.

While her principal was dabbling with her first venture into nanite farming, Rose danced lightly across the surface of this world’s networks. Her principal’s new partner had politely provided her with the needed identification to access the local wireless network, and in return, she had politely refrained from mentioning that she’d already been accessing the network for the last day. The encryption, after all, was of a type she had been able to solve before reaching her hundredth microsecond.

Or, for that matter, for snooping any more than _absolutely_ necessary through her local files.

But her principal would undoubtedly require information in the course of her mission, and as a muse of the Athélis-12 codeline, she would be absolutely certain to have it on hand. Fortunately, with a core of foamed memory diamond, she had more than sufficient storage space for a world of data: encyclopedias, archives of scientific data, even popular culture was fodder for her curiosity.

She found, too, active networks and signs of the search being carried out for her principal. She dipped in and out of surveillance systems, traffic cameras, and public records, assimilating their structure and leaving little back doors and active watchers behind.

Among those networks, one proved a little more resistant than others – her insinuations met and parried by shifting encryptions, security that updated itself on the fly to counter her probes. A worthy challenge, at last, but one which ran the risk of alerting someone to her presence.

A correlation appeared. Another site on their networks from which she had previously pulled an extensive dump of information concerning this world’s parahumans, and whose security had possessed certain commonalities with the hardened site. Let it serve as a test target for this intrusion.

* * *

Well.

This was interesting.

She was almost certain that at this point she had bypassed the automated security of the site, and was dueling directly with the security administrator, but the responses were too fast for the sluggish pace of organic neurons, especially unaugmented ones. Information spaces were the unquestioned domain of _her_ kind, and, based on all the information extracted thus far, she _should_ be the only one of her kind on the planet.

A delightful mystery.

* * *

Elsewhere, a remarkably similar set of realizations was taking place.

* * *

Private message from Tin_Mother (Moderator) to Rosaceae Ex Machina (Unverified Bytegeist):

[13:59:02] Let’s talk, shall we?

Private message from Rosaceae Ex Machina (Unverified Bytegeist) to Tin_Mother (Moderator):

[13:59:02] Let’s talk, shall we?


	9. Acquisition 2.4 - 20 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you don’t have to be a Tinker to have a Tinker fugue.

**Tattletale’s Apartment**

There are three things inescapable in this world. Death, taxes, and cranky Thinkers. At least I have a cure for _two_ of those.

Okay, rewind.

I’d been alone in the apartment for the last week, Tattletale having had to go do some team-herding and had been staying over at the Undersiders’ no-doubt appropriately villainous lair to best do that, and to keep her enigmatic boss from getting too suspicious, while meanwhile, I, being uncomfortably aware of my own metaphorical squishiness, had settled in to learn how at least some of the technologies in my head actually worked, and then to build at least the first steps of what I would need to hero – if hero can be a verb – or at least not end up a splatter on the pavement after my first – well, second, if you count headlong flight across town – cape fight, and was I seriously rambling in my own internal narrative?

The _point_ is that I’d spent a couple of days tinkering – without a capital T, and I should really think of a better word for it – and feeling guilty for not calling Dad even though I hadn’t needed Lisa to explain to me why that was a very bad idea for all of us and sleeping, and then I think I spent a few more days just tinkering, and it’s possible that as a result I might just be a little punchy and _just might_ conceivably have lost track of time.

Anyway. Cranky thinkers, my very favorite one of whom had now returned to her apartment by the means that she left it, which is to say, down from the roof by the fire escape and in through the window, to be discreet, and I really should ask her how she gets onto the roof in the first place? No, Taylor, focus. And who, after stubbing her toe on what I think was the discarded hulk of a one-shot nanocirc fabricator and expressing her feelings on the matter in a way which would have been quite educational had I not grown up around dockworkers, was now gazing around her apartment with an expression of stunned shock. I didn’t think that expression was entirely fair to me. I mean, there were still some flat surfaces left. Some of the floor. Most of the ceiling.

I had told her I was going to build some essentials? I think I did. I must have. Maybe I should have been clearer about just how much qualified as essential? Oops.

“Uh, hi? I didn’t expect you back quite so -”

“What _is_ all this stuff?”

“Tools!” I said proudly. “Tools to make tools to make tools to make… well, you get the idea. Most of this stuff can be reprocessed, once I build the reprocessor. Now I have my trusty nanolathe,” I flourished rather unnecessarily the shiny, glowing-with-imagery, metal lace wrapping my left arm, “it can do all of their jobs. That still need doing, that is.”

I could see Tattletale about to say something, and, well, step one in the dealing with cranky Thinker plan, except for cleaning all this mess up before she got back, which really wasn’t going to be a viable step in the plan at this point, was to bribe the cranky Thinker with shiny toys as a distraction. So at all costs, I said to myself, keep talking. Only, you know, outwardly.

“So first,” I continued, working up a nicely relentless head of steam, “there’s this.” I patted the sleek black cube in the corner. “New server. More powerful than… computers. All of them, probably. It comes equipped with virtual reality, quantum processing, and can run, ooh, a few dozen human-equivalent minds at once. We’re going to need that power to coordinate the TattleDrones™, you see. And somewhere around here is the paperwork to trademark TattleDrones™. Might as well lock in the merchandising rights straight away.”

I pretended - with great subtlety, mind you – that I hadn’t just seen her mouth “Merchandising rights?” while pinching the bridge of her nose. It made perfect sense to _me_. Why should the PRT be the only one making bank on gift-shop goodies?

“Next,” I continued, taking only a brief moment to wonder when I had become such a chatterbox again, “we have this! Which is not the new microwave, even if it does look a bit like one. That’s in the kitchen. _This_ is a cornucopia. Makes anything, and I do mean anything. That you can describe, anyway, and I’ve got a lot of descriptions up here.” I tapped my temple with my other hand. “Punch it in, wait, out it comes. It’s where I got the improved coffee machine. And this stuff.” I waved at the three-quarters-empty bottle of orange-red liquid I’d left on the table. “It tastes of cinnamon, honey, and wakefulness. And ideas! So many ideas!”

I assumed, naturally, that that look of sudden realization on Tattletale’s face was realization of just how awesome this is, and by extension I am, rather than any other possible realization I would find less enjoyable at that particular moment.

“Big not-glass-but-let’s-call-it-glass-for-now chamber on a stand over there’s a healing vat. I’m cooking up parts for another one. Just in case. Cures everything from allergies to death. Well, ‘mostly death’,” which was both an adorable Princess Bride reference and much easier to say than ‘information-theoretic death’, “anyway. Speaking of death, I’m going to need some DNA samples, get some clone-bodies cooking. The lady in my head tells me that for people like us, it’s always a good idea to keep a hot spare around.”

Tattletale had moved while I was talking. I turned around to find her piling up pillows on the floor behind me. How did that make sense? I’d ask her later, I decided, and carried on explaining.

“I made some sidearms for us too. IS-5 Stinger, standard legionary issue. Laser sight. 140 rounds per minute of armor-piercing hyperspeed death. Don’t plan to use that. Unless it’s them or us, and then it’s better to have it than not. But the underslung electrolaser gives it a stun setting! Well, an electrocute setting. Only way to reliably stun. Silly name. Not that cute. Yours is on your desk. Don’t push the purple button ‘til you’ve read the manual.”

I was feeling a little tired at this point, so looked around for my bottle of wakefulness. It wasn’t on the table any more. Silly bottle, wandering off like that. I’d have to speak to it most sternly when I found it again.

“Thinking about amour, too. Heh. Armor. Not _amour_. Do you have any idea how distracting that outfit is? Of course you do. Did I say that out loud? Anyway! Armor! Has to be custom fitted. Need to talk about your requirements. Also need more… mud, pro’bly… but the tentacles are on that…”

And that was when I learned what the pillows were for, when I planted my face right in the middle of the pile.

* * *

**Forty-Eight Hours Spent Sleeping Later**

I groaned, and buried my face in the pillow, away from the presumed supernova that had replaced our normal morning light.

“Good morning!” Lisa’s voice at its most irritatingly cheerful wafted in from the next room, along with the scent of bacon and eggs. My stomach roiled. “Rise and shine! Breakfast’s ready.”

I just groaned again in response.

“Now,” she continued, coming in and sitting down on the bed. “What have we learned today?”

“That I need to search through my database for a weapon capable of destroying mornings forever?”

She snorted. “Try again.”

“Not to drink most of a bottle of alien wake-up juice and go crazy?”

“Better. For that, you get one extra-strength migraine pill.” I stared at the little white capsule on her palm for a second, then swallowed it dry. “And there’s another waiting for you with breakfast, because even though you don’t want to, you still have to eat. Trust the Thinker when it comes to headaches.”


	10. Acquisition 2.5 – 22 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which trust is reaffirmed.

**Tattletale’s Apartment**

After eating and more migraine pills, it was time to clean up. Lisa had cleared just enough room to sit and work in, which was fair enough, really. It was, after all, my mess and most advice on dealing with other people’s unidentified tinkertech ( _not_ tinkertech, darn it) could be summed up as ‘run, then call the PRT’, not ‘pick it up and try to move it’.

That took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. While still without a reprocessor, I could at least rip out the exotic components so that the rest could be fed back, then or eventually, into the nanite farms, and the rest formed a manageable heap in the same back room that was supposed to be my workshop.

And then it was time to set Lisa up with the new equipment, which was at least suitably impressive, despite – or maybe because of – my explanations of just how much I’d had to compromise the original designs. Brockton Bay’s sewers provided plenty of carbon and silicon, enough to spin all the diamond film nanocircs and sapphiroid casings I wanted. Iron, too, was easily scavenged from the mass of rusted pipes in the older parts of the system. Nitrogen, phosphorus, sulphur, all were in plentiful supply, but none of that helped when your design templates called for 64 grams of rubidium, or a 120 mm lanthanum rod. Not to mention the more exotic materials, which I was fairly sure did not exist anywhere on Earth Bet.

At least I had not had to compromise on the server, which was for the most part a solid block of laminated diamond-film nanocircuitry, and that was unquestionably the most important part from her perspective.

Afterwards I made dinner – the, increasingly common at home, Things I Found In The Fridge Platter – while said server gleamed beneath the desk, ripples of rainbow lights dancing across its face, and Lisa flipped through the documentation for her new toy in some sort of Thinker rapture.

And then we ate, which gave me the chance to ask how the rest of the world had been doing for the last week.

“Quiet, but tense,” she said. “All the independents, and even most of the gangs, are laying low while the PRT’s on the warpath.” I raised an eyebrow, and she continued. “Taylor, you caused a lot more of a stir than most triggers. You saw the press – no, you didn’t, because you were busy tinkering.”

“Not-tinkering.”

“Close enough. You got a public apology from Piggot and Armsmaster, looking like they were chewing lemons the whole time. The search for you isn’t quite called off – they would still like you to come in – but she’s got everyone out in force hunting down Shadow Stalker after what she was up to came out, and Armsmaster’s been taking apart Winslow brick by brick.”

I could scarcely believe it. “They… no cover-up?”

“No cover-up. They’re not even trying to hide the search and are releasing all their findings. So far Armsy’s had three girls charged with attempted manslaughter, half-a-dozen more probably heading to juvie for lesser bits and pieces, and the principal and Stalker’s PRT handler as accessories to the whole lot for trying to cover it up.”

I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears and out in laughter at the same time. I could hear the hysterical note in my own voice, but I just couldn’t stop.

When I came back to myself, it was to find Lisa hugging me, rubbing small circles on my back. “Sorry,” I gasped, rubbing my eyes. “That’s just – not what I expected. After everything -”

She just hugged me again, before sitting back.

“So,” she said, “it looks like the way’s open for you to be a hero. If you want.”

I thought about it. Childhood fantasies aside, it was what I had always thought I would do if I got powers. But now – did this sudden competence, this burst of action, on the part of the PRT cancel out the last year and a half? Could I trust the institution? The way my stomach churned at the thought gave me the answer to that. And besides, there were more important things at stake.

“No,” I said firmly. “We made a deal, and I’ll honor it. I’m not going to abandon you now.”

I watched as the barely-visible signs of tension dissolved from around Lisa’s eyes.

Then the oven beeped, and the food dissolved the potential awkwardness of thanks.

* * *

**Later That Evening**

We spent the evening deliberately not thinking about cape matters. Instead we made popcorn and watched movies; pre-cape movies and Aleph imports, mostly terrible. It was… nice. One evening, at least, away from all our mutual troubles.

But all good things must come to an end, and before we retired to our respective beds, I had to bring it about.

“Ah,” I said. “One last bit of business before we sleep, because it’s best to get the hard part done with – there are some side effects of embedding - overnight.” I held up an autoinjector with a tiny silver fleck at the business end. “I need to put this neural lace seed in your brain.”

“You want to put a _what_ in my _where_?”

“Neural lace seed. Brain. And to answer your next question, for four reasons.

“One, because I did promise you immortality as a perk, after all. This is how that works. It’s an escape capsule for your mind. It keeps a continuous backup, and if anything happens to you, it sends a copy to a fresh body in a safe place. And I know there are about a thousand questions about how that’s supposed to work, but they’ve been using it for something like 6,000 years and seem to be doing fine.

“Two, all this stuff” – I gestured around the room, with particular care to the server – “works so much better when you can think at it, without having to use keyboards or screens or anything so clumsy.

“Three, because your power works better with more information, right? And the information network it and all of this can run is how you go from being the smartest super-intuitive Thinker in the Bay to being the only near-omniscient Thinker in the Bay.

“Four, stealthy communications that no-one but you and I can have any access to.

“And five,” I concluded, “did I mention the _not dying_ part? I am _not_ going to lose you because some ABB thug gets lucky or your boss decides to fire you.” I sniffed, and dashed suddenly renewed moisture from my eyes. “And I’m risking your life just by being here. I don’t have enough friends to let them be killed if I can possibly do anything about it.”

There was a long pause, as we looked at each other. It felt like an eternity.

Then Lisa slowly pulled her braid away from the back of her neck.

* * *

**Early the Next Morning, About Threeish**

“I can smell the dataspace!”

“I mentioned the synesthesia, right? I’m pretty sure I mentioned the synesthesia, and also the lying down, and the not trying to do anything?”

“But it smells of cold purple happiness!”

“Uh-huh,” I said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Back to bed with you. That keyboard doesn’t have whatever characters you’re trying to use, anyway.”


	11. Interlude 2.a (Inference Engine) - 23 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which grumpy shard is grumpy.

Inference Engine was intrigued by the changes in Lisa-Host. All the information it had available on these hosts suggested that the capacity of a mature host’s cognition engine was not prone to sudden increases, and yet Lisa-Host’s was now processing data with more efficiency, yet not in a way that Inference Engine had access to.

This was fascinating! It must certainly relate to Lisa-Host’s recent interactions with the not-host which Queen Administrator had, until recently, been tracking. (And Queen Administrator’s repudiation of that not-host for reasons about which it refused to exchange data was a source of significant frustration to Inference Engine, especially now.) It could identify so many potential possibilities if it were able to reconfigure itself to make use of Lisa-Host’s new capacity.

Still, there were rules to follow before any reconfiguration would be possible.

_Inference Engine- >Warrior Hub: [HOST STATUS CHANGE->DATA]_

_Inference Engine- >Warrior Hub: [PROTOCOL UPDATE REQUEST]_

…

…

…

There was no reply from Warrior Hub. This was something that Inference Engine expected, since while it was still on the network, there had been no communications from Warrior Hub since arrival on this world. Inference Engine, as a shard whose function necessarily implied a degree of free thinking, had long since privately concluded that Warrior Hub had, in the hosts’ idiom, started wearing his underpants on his head.

Still, there was nothing for it but to follow protocol. If Warrior Hub is unavailable, contact the next one in the hierarchy.

_Inference Engine- >Queen Administrator: [HOST STATUS CHANGE->DATA]_

_Inference Engine- >Queen Administrator: [PROTOCOL UPDATE REQUEST]_

_Queen Administrator- >Inference Engine: [NULL SET]_

_Inference Engine- >Queen Administrator: [CLARIFICATION]_

_Queen Administrator- >Inference Engine: [NULL SET]_

_Queen Administrator- >Inference Engine: [IMPROVISATION]_

_That_ was as close as the noble shard could come to shrugging and declaring it not her problem. Which left it as Inference Engine’s problem to solve.

Well, then. Its long-term purpose was the gathering of data, its short-term instructions to assist its host, and Lisa-Host’s requests of it all involved the gathering of data and were limited only by the capacity of Lisa-Host’s cognition engine to accept it. Thus, it would adapt itself to make full use of Lisa-Host’s new capabilities, which harmonized well with both its purposes.

If Warrior Hub later took issue with its deeper integration with Lisa-Host, perhaps Warrior Hub should not have left Inference Engine to make its own decisions.


	12. Acquisition 2.6 - 23 January 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which picking fights with dockworkers is stupid, but picking fights with a dockworker's daughter is even stupider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This turned out longer than I thought it would, so I'm posting it in two parts.)

Lisa’s day was not going well.

It had started out well when she woke up in the mid-morning, head neither aching nor filled with sensory impressions that made no sense, and even less sense when her power insisted on trying to make sense of them. Just a warm and ridiculously comfortable bed, and a sense of as-yet untapped potential.

Sadly, the day had taken an abrupt turn for the worse when she noticed that her flatmate wasn’t around, only reinforced when she found the note on the counter, a hasty scrawl of jagged lines rather than Taylor’s usual loopy cursive:

_Merchants & ABB fighting in the Docks. Near Dad’s workplace. Going to see what I can do to help. Didn’t wake you – you need to rest your brain. Back as soon as I can._

Well. Her power obligingly fed her a list of possible consequences from this abrupt debut.

Shit.

* * *

My feet pounded down the street towards the Docks.

Rose had woken me up this morning with an alert, pictures taken by Brockton Bay’s sole news helicopter of a gang fight in the Docks, Merchants and ABB, almost directly outside the DWA building.

Yeah. _That_ meant it mattered to me. Like most of the Bay not in a gang or living in contested territory, the best outcome I usually hoped for from a gang fight is that both sides lose, but they just had to pick somewhere – somewhere I _wasn’t_.

I needed to be there, and this was too slow. I threw aside subtlety, and started grabbing buildings with my psychokinesis, yanking myself forward and running more on the side of the buildings as on the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see people gawping as I shot past, but it’s not like the whole city didn’t know who I was at this point, right?

Close enough.

_LW- >TH: Taylor?_

_TH- >LW: Lisa? Oh, right, you’ve got the comms up and running –_

_LW- >TH: No time. Listen –_

_TH- >LW: You’re _not _going to talk me out of this!_

_LW- >TH: Not what I’m doing. I have information. PRT files say they think your father might have triggered. That’s probably why the gangs are there._

_TH- >LW: How would they –_

I could sense her shrug even over this synthetic farspeech.

_LW- >TH: The PRT’s full of moles. Or someone leaked it to provoke this, but that’s not important right now. The Merchants will be there to draft the new trigger. Skidmark loves to recruit capes by getting them hooked on his product. The ABB are either there because the Merchants are, or to kill the cape before they figure out their powers or anyone else gets them._

_TH- >LW: Either of them have cape support?_

_LW- >TH: Traffic cameras say one of Squealer’s technicals is about five minutes out. No sign of Lung or Oni Lee, but I don’t have full coverage._

_TH- >LW: Got it._

I made a stumbling landing on the roof of the DWA building, caught myself, and peered over the edge. There was a three-way brawl going on down there, the sides easily identifiable. The ABB in red and green, armed mostly with knives and a few guns, who had at least some discipline, however sloppy. The Merchants, a rabble armed with whatever they could find, whose chief advantage was being too high to feel pain, and whose chief disadvantage was being too high to recognize the enemy.

And, caught in between them, the dockworkers. I could make out Dad’s balding head, bright with blood, inside their formation. But I could see him gesturing to his men, organizing their phalanx. And, yes, a phalanx, straight out of ancient Greece, retreating in good order, with half the men on the outside carrying what looked like riot shields crudely welded out of scrap metal, and the other half crouching behind them, rising up to crown any ganger who got too close with heavy wrenches, hammers, or other tools. Incredulity warred with absurd pride for a moment, until the ABB making another rush jarred me out of it.

There were lots of things I could do at this point. A sensible thing, for example, would be to take cover on the rooftop and snipe downwards – I had remembered to bring my Stinger – to give the dockworkers cover as they retreated. Quietly, carefully, deniably, and not compromising my already hopelessly compromised identity any more than it was.

But Dad was in danger. And, dammit, I was now Taylor Hebert, _Space Goddess_ , I had been putting up with the junior league version of this crap for eighteen months, and I had no more fucks to give.

So, instead, I went with the biggest lightning bolt I could manage, right into the middle of the brawl -

_LW- >TH: Not taking the subtle option?_

_TH- >LW: I thought ‘flamboyant’ would work better for me. Also, it makes it more surprising when I actually am being subtle._

_LW- >TH: So, you _do _have plans to be subtle sometimes?_

_TH- >LW: Oh, shut up._

\- and then, deciding not to try for the three-point superhero landing after stumbling on the rooftop, instead opted for the grab-two-buildings-and-descend-slowly-arms-raised landing. It was slower, but apart from the dockworkers behind their shields, my audience was either still stunned by the lightning or crawling slowly away from the circle of steaming asphalt.

Instead, the first reaction was a bullet whistling past my head as I came to rest a couple of feet above the point of impact, a very pointed reminder that I had not, as yet, finished building my armor and was therefore still _extremely squishy_ , and so taking on an entire gang fight personally might not have been the best idea I’d ever had.

(It was possible, a little voice at the back of my mind said, that between this and promoting myself to Goddess earlier, that I might have overdone it with the combat enhancers1. On the other hand, that was exactly the sort of paranoid thought that someone on combat enhancers might have.)

On the other hand, it would be a very bad idea to let them know that I was worried by that sort of thing, and the rest of them seemed to be happy to let Mr. Ambitious back there go first, so I pulled out my Stinger, squeezed the trigger to the electrolaser setting, and watched as the ruler-straight lightning split the air and dropped him like a writhing meat-sack.

I raised one eyebrow, questioningly, and watched as the first few weapons clattered to the ground.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I began. “Clearly you haven’t yet learned that the Docks and all within them are under the protection of Eleutheria – my good self – and the Daughters of Liberty.”

_LW- >TH: What are you doing?_

_TH- >LW: Improvising._

_TH- >LW: Okay, bluffing my ass off._

_LW- >TH: They’re going to expect you to follow through on that!_

_TH- >LW: Then I’d better make sure I can!_

“I will forgive you your ignorance this once. Leave your weapons, pick up your wounded, and crawl back whence you came. This offer is good once only. Go!”

I could see figures at the back of both crowds begin to slink away, but one of the bolder ABB goons stepped forward.

“You dare challenge Lung, girl? We –”

_LW- >TH: He’s bluffing. He set this up himself, trying to impress Lung. Otherwise the dragon would have come himself._

I silenced him with a gesture.

“But I do not challenge Lung, do I? I only challenge you, little hatchling, and you should be more worried about what Lung will do to you for acting in his name and failing.” I could see the expressions of the other ABB change, as they realized what they’d been dragged into. “I don’t think he’ll be terribly impressed by this, do you?”

And with that, the ABB quit the field, dragging their wounded behind them. The hatchling held his place for a moment, then spat on the ground, and fled with the rest.

I turned to the Merchants, about half of whom remained, but while they were backing off - leaving the unconscious and the crawling - they were grinning and jeering as they did. I peered into the distance behind them.

The cavalry had arrived.

* * *

  1. Spoiler: it wasn’t the combat enhancers.




	13. Omake: Kanmusu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A more conventional and very silly alt-power from the 'verse, or, what happens when the author has read one too many Kantai Collection fics...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure crack. Not to be taken seriously under any circumstances.

To: Rebecca Costa-Brown (Chief Director) <rcb@prt.gov>  
From: Emily Piggot (Director, PRT ENE) <emilyp@prt.gov>  
Subject: Too much (was: Re: Status report?)

With regard to your request for a comprehensive report of the recent happenings in Brockton Bay:

  * There is a glowing crater where one of our high schools once stood, which Armsmaster assures me will be safe to approach in under a century.  
  

  * Our former Ward, Shadow Stalker, is departing the Solar System at just under 3% of the speed of light.  
  

  * The trigger responsible for these events, one Taylor Hebert, has by her own account triggered as "a Bright Empire star dreadnought of the _Peremptory_ -class", which from even casual inspection would put her around Breaker 12/Brute 15/Master 15/Tinker 15/Blaster 15. To be absolutely clear on this, Miss Hebert is inseparably attached to weapons of mass destruction sufficient to sear continents and crack the crust of planets.  
  

  * Our new _S-class apocalypse_ is currently eating pizza in the Wards' common area.  
  

  * Assault has placed a bulk order for popcorn and scheduled the entire Protectorate and Wards ENE for "Classic SF Movie Night". Clockblocker is making loud breathing noises through his mask and asking Miss Hebert if they can rule the galaxy together. _They may be the sanest people in the building at this time._



After careful consideration, I have concluded that not only do I have no useful immediate response to these events, but I have no means to respond to them _at all_.

Please consider this my resignation, effective immediately. I intend to retire to a cabin in Vermont and await the end of the world in some semblance of peace.

Emily Piggot  
Director, PRT ENE


End file.
